


Vestige

by Kicker



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anger, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, F/M, Not Canon Compliant, Original Character Death(s), Swearing, Timeline Fuckery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 14:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10924158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kicker/pseuds/Kicker
Summary: In 2287, the Institute released Velia Kent from Vault 111. Within twelve months, she had led both the Railroad and the Brotherhood of Steel right to their door.So, in early 2289, Director of the Institute Shaun Kent ordered infiltrator synth designation M2-79 to the surface to dispose of and replace her. Once this was achieved, her mission was to gather information on both factions, and to exploit and heighten the tensions between them such that the Institute could find a way to destroy them both. Utterly.Her mission was not a success.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> oops I forgot to put my note.
> 
> **what would happen if the Sole Survivor were replaced by a synth?**
> 
> this is a question I was asked a very long time ago, to which I am finally setting out to give an answer. I worked on the first draft of this for NaNoWriMo '16 so a) it's been in the works for a loooong time so I hope it's good, and b) if anything seems a bit... _out there_ please just assume I wrote it when I was stretching for my daily wordcount and have left it in for nostalgia's sake.
> 
> canon has been bent to my will in a few places where I don't like it or need the timings to be a little different. 'not canon compliant' is perhaps a little excessive, but be warned that some things won't quite add up. for example, Deacon is actually good at disguise rather than the in-game tighty-whitey disaster zone we all know and love (of course you have a splinter, Deacon, you're running around in the nude. put some pants on for god's sake).
> 
> lastly, please pay particular attention to the tag **'major character death'** and do not read this if you would be offended by the deaths of any major characters, particularly those noted in the list above. this is not an indication of my feelings toward said major characters, it's just what I think might happen given this particular set of circumstances.
> 
> actually-lastly, the tag for any associated content I've posted on tumblr is [kickerfic: vestige](http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/tagged/kickerfic%3A-vestige) and this is the one for [Velia/M2-79](http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/tagged/111%3A-velia-kent). while you're there, feel free to [send me an ask](http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/contact). ;)
> 
> for-real-lastly, I love comments (hint hint) but feel free to save them up for when I do the thing. you'll know it when you see it.

_March 3, 2289_  
_Old North Church_

The concrete floor of the catacombs that sprawl beneath the Old North Church is hard under his knees, despite the armored padding of his flight suit. It's cold, too, the very foundations of the building imbued with a hungering chill that reaches up to drag the warmth from his bones and sap the strength from his limbs.

Slowly, carefully, he reaches out to unfasten the buckle of the Pip-Boy, the metal clips springing back at his touch to strike the plastic casing with a crack that echoes sharply through the crumbling vault. The hinges are stiff but pliable, and the wrist within it slender enough that the two sides do not have to be separated far for him to be able to pull it free.

Released, her hand falls to the floor, palm up, delicate fingers curling softly back on themselves.

He turns the device in his hands, brushes dust and a spatter of blood from the screen with the side of his thumb. A tap of a button causes the display to flicker on, as green and bright as any terminal despite its size. A figure appears, the iconic Pip-Boy himself, thumb raised as though to celebrate some victory. Ironic, given the circumstances. Unlike the rest of it, the head of the childishly-rendered figure shows with a dotted outline, an alert flashing silently and repeatedly beside it.

_Crippled_.

He turns a dial. As expected, aside from the medical diagnostic function, the device contains a wealth of information. Lists of equipment and resources, both personal and belonging to her various settlements. A map is marked with dozens of locations, all annotated and many linked by lines that appear to signify the trading network that the Minutemen had thus far refused to allow the Brotherhood to exploit. A series of recordings, data files, instructions and orders - some of them even from himself - and finally a screen showing row after row of dates, reaching far back into the previous year. Hundreds of rows of them, in fact, one for nearly every day.

A journal.

He selects the most recent entry. The screen flickers but instead of lines of neat green text it shows a mess of characters; letters and symbols and words both complete and fragmentary. Encryption. On a simple journal.

_I always knew you had something to hide,_ he thinks. Then he sighs, because it's just not true. He had no idea. He took her at her word, let her pour honeyed words of loyalty into his ears, swearing fealty to a cause she had clearly planned to betray all along.

_Damn it._

A sudden cascade of dust and grit behind him almost has him dropping the device and reaching for his weapon.

"Elder?"

His heart beats hard in his chest and a wave of nausea rises into his throat. He had let himself be so distracted by this... _thing_ , this _trinket_ , that he had not heard the Knight's approach. He masks his discomfort with a frown and rises to his feet, bracing his weight on the nearby desk to spare his leg, the Pip-Boy still in his other hand. He fixes Rhys with as steady a stare as he can manage, and searches for an appropriate greeting.

"Status report," he says, _demands_. The words emerge more harshly than he intends but they have the desired effect as the Knight snaps even further to attention than he had already been standing.

"All clear," he says. "Sir."

But of course it is. She - _it_ \- had relayed straight out of the Prydwen, disappearing right before his eyes in a crackle of blue lightning. By the time his vertibirds had crossed the water to hover over the riverbank, unable to land on the uneven terrain, they had already begun their evacuation.

Consequently, his force had faced a fraction of the numbers that had been anticipated, though those that remained had fought no less fiercely. Two, three Brotherhood soldiers lie dead on the ground, as dead as this abomination but far more of a loss to the world. Still more bear injuries that will need to be tended before they can be taken into the field again, not to mention their damaged equipment.

And for what?

In a silence broken only by the distant heavy tread of power armor, he looks around at what he had been informed was the headquarters of a highly sophisticated and dangerous faction within the Commonwealth. One whose goals were in antithesis to the Brotherhood's, one that required immediate elimination to ensure the success of the mission against the Institute.

But all he sees is a shabby, disorganized mess. Piles of brick and plaster left scattered on the floor as if they had never been cleared. Desks all around strewn with papers not collected before the abrupt departure of their previous owners. Over one side, a firing range set up with primitive targets made of little more than reclaimed plywood. A soot-stained storage container nearby has been blasted open during the battle - or even before that - revealing just a few meagre scraps of ballistic weave and what seems to be a crude example of leg armor.

This was the Railroad. This... mess. This was the top priority, one that had to be dealt with before all others.

And she, of all... people. She chose to _protect_ it.

_Why?_

He shakes his head as if to shake away the question itself. At this point, with the Pip-Boy heavy in his hand, such conjecture is a waste of time. He must return to the Prydwen, hand the device over to Quinlan, let his scribes pore over the contents and provide him with the answers to questions he doesn't even know to ask.

But even as he considers it he's filled with a sense of reluctance. To hand over the primary source of information once more, to have to wait and be surprised by its contents, to be forced to determine his future course of action from the word of another. He knows it's what he should do. And a few months ago, even weeks, he might have done exactly that.

Now, though, he tightens his grip on the device. Perhaps it's time to take matters into his own hands.

  
Beside him, Rhys shuffles on his feet, distracting him from his thoughts once more. In the dying light of the few remaining oil-lamps, the Knight's eyes glitter, unreadable. There had been a time that they were more often to be found dulled by alcohol or anger, sometimes both, but the events of the last few weeks appear to have brought him a new-found determination.

Betrayal will do that to a man. If it does not break him first.

Haylen, his squadmate, had proved weak. She had spilled information left, right and center both to and about the Paladin, before and after his flight. She had disrespected her superiors and disobeyed direct orders. She would likely never be sent into the field again, and she could have been discharged already if it weren't considered a punishment too far to banish her into the Commonwealth, so far from her home.

Rhys, though. Rhys remains. He is all that remains of Gladius, in fact. And he is the natural successor to the rank of Paladin left vacant once more, and to the set of T-60 still sitting in the engineering bay of the Prydwen.

He looks down at the Pip-Boy again. How differently might things have gone, had another team been sent to the Commonwealth, or had the recon squad been able to contact the Prydwen before encountering _her_. Had he had the luxury of demanding caution, and not been ambushed by glowing reports of the new recruit, already tested in the field, already willing to swear in to the Brotherhood's creed.

He curses himself, again, _again_. It was an error of judgement. A serious error of judgement. Outsiders brought danger. And one with such a fantastical story to explain her origins should surely have raised more alarms.

"What should we do with the body, sir?"

The Knight's lip curls as he speaks and Arthur can hardly fault him for it. He stares down at it. So small and fragile for something that could have brought them all to ruin. With its pale, luminous skin and bright blonde hair it looks doll-like, almost perfect but for the crooked, swollen nose and still-bloodied scar across it. Her jumpsuit is worn and filthy, seams fraying, knees dark with ground-in dirt. The green of the fabric now is faded, crossed by darker stripes where it has been protected from the bleaching effect of radiation by now-discarded pieces of armor. Shadows of things that once were whole but now are lost. Vestiges.

Just like her. Or the woman she was. If she ever really was one.

He reaches out a foot and nudges her shoulder with the toe of his boot, as if to make sure that she is certainly dead. Her neck twists, her head lolling to one side, the synthetic component showing white and glossy through her shattered and charred skull. A trickle of blood or whatever fluid it is that ran through her veins begins to slide, slow and thick, from her nose and over her lip. A wave of revulsion courses through him and he thinks _Burn it. Toss it in the sea. Leave it where it lies, I don't care. There's no need to show reverence to a thing like this._

But he holds his tongue, instead lifting the Pip-Boy again and returning to the map. He casts his eye over the names he knows signify bustling trading posts, farms both productive and near-barren, quasi-military installations; all of them united under and protected by a single person. General Velia Kent. Savior of the Commonwealth Minutemen. Savior of the Commonwealth itself, depending on where the reports had come from.

And betrayer of the Brotherhood, twice over.

But that would mean nothing to the native population. Without incontrovertible proof of her true nature, they would hear only that the Brotherhood had killed their beloved leader. The misplaced wrath of the entire Commonwealth would come down around his ears. Such an undisciplined rabble would hardly provide a significant threat to the Brotherhood but they must not be allowed to further distract from the ultimate goal; the destruction of the Institute.

"Have it delivered back to the Minutemen," he says. "Let them see the true nature of their precious General. Perhaps they'll start to show us some respect, now that we've cleansed them of this filth."


	2. Chapter 2

_February 16, 2289_  
_The Institute_

The boy's pale eyebrows knot together as he stares intently at the rubber ball. M2-79 turns it in her fingers, giving him the visual proof of her previous words, _it's a ball, an ordinary ball, touch it, see? you can bounce it against a wall if you like, but not now, not in here, not any of the labs because you might break something and you know Father gets cross when that happens._

She passes it in front of his eyes once, twice, watching his deep blue eyes track it every step of the way, then with a flourish she closes her fingers tight around it. She waits until he looks away from it, up at her face, for that brief and precious moment of disbelief when he doubts that she can do what she has told him she will. Then she holds out her hand, palm facing up, fingers outstretched.

Empty.

His eyes widen, but his mouth does not fall open in surprise as it has done on previous occasions. This time he grabs her hand, turns it over, touches it with his fingers. He spins around to look on the floor, under the table, his eyes roving everywhere with mounting urgency.

"Where is it?" he asks, and once again she hears the catch in his voice, that slight hint of fear that precedes a display of more obvious distress. "Mom, where is it? That was my ball, where is it? Why are you doing this to me?"

_Because the doctor over there has instructed me to do so. The doctor who is watching your reaction and deciding whether this test is a pass or a fail. The doctor who's trying to determine if your mental capacities are developing as your body is not._

But he wouldn't understand even if she could tell him so she catches his attention, reaches behind his ear and produces the ball again, caught gently between her fingers. He snatches it from her, cradling it in his hands like something infinitely more precious than a meaningless toy. When he looks back up she expects to see something warm in his expression, something like pleasure at his wish fulfilled. Instead, in the liquid darkness of his eyes, in his still-furrowed brow she sees something else, something she wasn't expecting. Disappointment. In her.

_Why are you doing this to me?_

She tries to return her mind to the test as this is a new development that the doctor will no doubt be interested to explore further.

"Why are you holding it so closely?" she asks.

"I don't want it to disappear again," he replies.

"It won't," she says. "Not by itself. It only disappears if I tell it to."

"Why would you do that?" he asks. "Why would you want anything to just disappear?"

_It's something that happens here. Units disappear. If not their bodies, then their minds, everything that they had been wiped clean and replaced with something new, something... less. It's just something you have to get used to._

Before she can think of a real reply there's a knock at the door, followed by a noisy clattering of plastic on plastic. M2-79 turns to see the doctor bending down to pick up his clipboard from the floor, and the door next to him sliding open to reveal Justin Ayo. Even before he nods and gives that cursory gesture of his, she knows why he's here.

It's time.

She rises to her feet and turns to leave the lab. Before she takes even a step the doctor's eyes widen briefly, flicking to the side, over her shoulder.

Of course. The boy. M2-79 might be expected to drop her responsibilities toward him on demand, but Kent would not. So she resumes her smile, wide and warm, and she's sure that it's reached her eyes because the doctor averts his, a flush of pink rising into his cheeks. Satisfied, she turns back and kneels in front of the boy.

"Shaun," she says, softly. "Mommy has to go away for a little while."

He nods. His eyes are a little red but his distress over the test does not seem to have persisted. "Okay," he says, quietly. "You will come back though. Right?"

"Yes," she says.

"Do you promise?"

She pauses. It's still difficult for her to tell when lying is appropriate, when it is the right thing to do, when it's the only thing to do. And it's even harder to make that decision with Ayo standing there at the door.

"I promise," she says.

The boy beams a bright smile at her and waves, his fingers oddly splayed around the ball still caught tight in his grasp.

  
Outside the room, Ayo stands with his arms folded. "I'm still not convinced that petty magic tricks are the best way to test the unit. Either of them."

The doctor clears his throat before replying, and only lifts his eyes to meet Ayo's after a few moments. He is nervous to even speak to him. M2-79 has observed this reaction from the other doctors, too, at least from those who do not speak in pleasant tones and then cast dark glances at Ayo's back after he has left.

"It was the first thing..." says the doctor, stumbling over even those simple words. "It was the first thing Kent did when we allowed them to meet. It's...."

"I know the story, thank you," replies Ayo. "And I know the theory. But a synth calling another synth _mommy_. It just doesn't seem right. And it's been cutting into M2-79's preparation time. Have you read all those journal entries?"

"Yes, Mr Ayo," she says.

"At least your test proves it can mimic some of her... less useful abilities. Though I don't imagine anyone on the surface really cares about her more esoteric pursuits. Do you think you're ready, Kent?"

"Yes, Mr Ayo," she says.

His eyes are cold and hard as he replies. "I wasn't asking M2-79."

Heat rises in her face as she realizes her mistake. She closes her mouth tight against the apology that wants so much to come out, _apologies, Mr Ayo, I spoke incorrectly, I'll do better next time._ Instead she averts her eyes and scrapes a fingernail along the side of her thumb, the way that Kent had during those few interactions with the Institute's directors.

"I'm not sure... I'm not really sure I'm the right person for the job. But I'll do my best."

"No, you're not," he replies. "We should be sending a Courser, sending a real message. But we can't afford to lose another one right now."

With a sharp word to dismiss the doctor, he turns and gestures for her to follow. She does, taking care not to touch her feet to the thick black line painted on the linoleum flooring outside Synth Retention. As he leads her in, past the armored guard on the door and through into his office, her heart begins to beat loud in her ears and fast in her chest.

"Alright," he says, leaning over his terminal. "You know what to do. At least you should do by now. But there's been a change of plan. You're going into Egret Tours. You'll still be relayed into a sheltered area nearby, as discussed."

She nods. Kent's journal entries had been full of information about the settlement, about her first impressions of the quietness, the view over the river, and the memories of it from before the war. She'd settled there and then opened it up as a refuge, a safe haven for those scraping out meagre existences nearby. One or two traders had even started to include it in their routes, bringing produce from all over the Commonwealth in return for materials scavenged from the local area.

It sounded horrible.

"But," continues Ayo, "you'll have to make your way to the settlement alone. No escort."

The plan had been drummed into her over the course of the last few weeks, right down to the minute. Relay in to the north of Lexington, be escorted to the highway outside Starlight, walk in from there alone. Not right from the insertion point. And not so far south, so close to the Glowing Sea and all the horrors it contains.

"The area's too exposed," he continues, "and the location itself too busy and highly defended. Gen-2's will be seen and more than one of _you_ will raise suspicion."

Busy? Highly defended? M2-79 knows she shouldn't object, certainly not to Ayo, but it almost sounds like he's talking about another location. "Her journal entries say that Egret has barely more than a dozen inhabitants," she says. "And she'd hardly been able to scrape together the materials to build even a short wall."

He glares at her but does reply. "Her journal entries are out of date. And even more so every day. It's developed far faster than we expected and she's become very good at covering up that kind of thing. Too good. If I weren't well aware of the Brotherhood's antipathy to the Railroad I'd think they were working together."

He lets out an irritable sigh and leans over his terminal. But he's not looking at it, not typing on it, probably not even reading what's on the screen. "But, I suppose that's what we need to find out. Report to the relay chamber at 08:00. Don't bring anything. You'll be provided with equipment and suitable clothing."

She nods and begins to make her way out, but pauses on the threshold when he calls out her designation one more time.

"M2-79," he says. "You're an M-class doing a Courser's job. Your chances of success are minimal. But do not think you can do any less than your best. Come back with answers or don't come back at all. You know the consequences."

  
She leaves the section as quickly as she can, averting her eyes from the reclamation chamber as she passes. Once outside she stands still for a minute, listening to the quiet hum of the systems that keep the Institute running. She can't fault his words. A synth created to aid the boy's development, sent out on an infiltration mission? It had never made sense, not even when Father himself had told her of the reassignment.

And the journal. It's out of date, of course it is. The last entry was from two months ago, the last time anyone had managed to get the Pip-Boy out of Kent's hands for long enough to extract the data.

But how much can really change about a person in that time?

She begins to walk through the corridors toward her cubicle, intending to go through her terminal again and make absolutely certain that she knows everything there is to know. But she only travels a few steps before she hears her designation being called out again.

"M2-79," says a voice. "Over here."

It comes from under a tree in one of the recreation areas, from a figure positioned on the shadier side of it. She steps toward it, dry leaves rustling on the grass under her feet. She frowns at the sensation, wondering whether someone's designated task has been forgotten. She pushes the thought away. She would have to deal with far worse once she reached the surface, after all.

Besides, the figure is the doctor from the earlier evaluation. His name-badge said Lewis, but now for whatever reason he has removed it. He is often tasked with the more simplistic tests relating to the boy, likely just a junior. His demeanor - nervous, extremely hesitant in his interactions with her - seemed to confirm it. But now here he is, standing beneath a tree, alone, gesturing her toward him.

M2-79 knows that it is inappropriate for them to communicate outside of their assigned duties. M2-79 should politely decline his request and notify his supervisor of the incident.

But Kent would not.

So she takes a few more steps toward him, allowing her head to tilt to the side as a indicator of curiosity. As she does, he puts his hand in his pocket. When he pulls it out again, he's holding a small rubber ball.

"That is Shaun's," she says.

"Yes," he says. "It's for you. He... he wanted you to have it."

"I don't understand."

"It's a gift," he says, holding it out toward her. "Because you're going away. He... he thought you seemed sad. That it might cheer you up."

She takes the ball, letting it settle into the middle of her palm. "He's never done anything like that before."

"I know," he replies, with a smile. "Isn't it great?"

Then he reaches out to close her fingers around the ball. She stares at his hand, _their_ hands, actually touching without a barrier of latex gloves or fabric between them. His skin is warm and dry and smooth, the pressure he applies light but firm; it sends curious sensations through her skin and up her arm.

"Thank you," she says, eventually.

"Don't let anyone see it," he says. "Keep it close. I... wouldn't want you to get into trouble."

She finds him looking right at her, and he's closer than she'd expected. He's close enough, in fact, that she can see that his eyes are gray, the irises ringed with black. He blinks twice and his lips part for a faint intake of breath that seems to herald another statement, maybe just a word, but he says nothing. He presses his lips together and looks away, taking back his hand and pushing it into the pocket of his labcoat.

M2-79 slips the ball into her own pocket but it is clearly visible in the line of the fabric. She is sure it will be seen so she pulls it back out, and turns it in her fingers. A movement in the corner of her eye tells her he is watching. She lifts the ball in the air, makes the same series of gestures as she had for the boy just a little while before. Then she smiles and holds out her hand, palm facing up, fingers outstretched.

Empty.

Silently, without taking her eyes away from his face, she returns her hands to her sides.

A Courser passes by, feet almost silent on the ground. He turns to face them but he does not stop to question the interaction. Even so the doctor turns to hurry away and as he does he mutters two words, words that surprise her, words that express a sentiment she's rarely encountered outside her readings, and certainly never directed at her.

_Good luck._


	3. Chapter 3

_February 17, 2289_  
_Fairline Hill Estates_

M2-79 had never been relayed before. The experience of being in one place and then suddenly not was hardly out of the ordinary, not for any synth, but the physical sensations that came along with the transportation certainly were. She would hardly know the words to describe it had she not heard a recording of Kent, one of the many she'd been instructed to listen to, memorise and mimic over and over again to ensure her intonation was correct. 

> VK: It tingled, like getting a shock from a set of armor when a fusion core isn't set right. Well. Just like a standard shock for you guys, I guess. Then... it hurt. Like being ripped apart. But... but a cold pain. Like I'd been... frozen before I was ripped apart. So it didn't really hurt, as such, it just... I... uh...
> 
> _[14s silence]_
> 
> DV: Are you alright?
> 
> VK: Fine. I'm fine. Carry on.
> 
> DV: Did you notice any after-effects?
> 
> VK: No. Yes. I mean... I was a little dizzy for a while, but it passed quite quickly. And I'm fine now, really. Is this all necessary? I'm fine. Really I am.

_Dizzy._

That's it. M2-79 has felt this way before; her vision fading, heartbeat throbbing in her ears, a sense of not quite being present in her own body. Pre-syncope is how she would usually term it were she describing the after-effects of a test to a doctor.

But she is not in the Institute any more.

"I feel a little dizzy," she says quietly, and nods. She pushes back the puffy sleeve of her thick winter jacket to reveal pale blonde hairs standing on end, her skin dotted and rough.

"Goosebumps," she says, staring at them for a moment before pulling the sleeve back down and rubbing her hands together. "I suppose it is rather cold."

She nods again.

The insertion point that had been chosen for her was an area just to the north-east of the Marina, and almost directly south of Diamond City. As the parasthesia... tingling... dies away, she looks around the room into which she has been relayed. It is unremarkable. The walls are bare concrete, the floor much the same with a few additional oily stains. A number of shelves and cabinets line the walls but they are all empty, long ago stripped of anything of value.

She crouches down to pass under the half-open garage door. When she reaches back under to pull her rucksack through, she catches the underside of the door with her back. It shakes on its tracks and releases a spatter of filthy water over her shoulder, soaking a dark streak down the arm of the jacket. She exclaims and brushes at the stain, only succeeding in spreading it further and covering her fingers with gritty, black dirt.

Wrinkling her nose in disgust and wiping her hands on her pants, she turns her attention outwards to the estate. The few buildings seem the same as they had in the surveillance photographs; perhaps less blurry, but certainly no less broken and crumbling. Branches of the mass of brambles in the center of the estate sway gently. A piece of pinkish fabric flutters from the top of a rusted fence. There is a popping sound that might be faraway gunfire, and the dry grass that has grown up between the cracks in the asphalt sends up a constant faint rustling.

Before she can stop herself, she looks up. The sky is a hazy blue, and packed with pale white clouds. She watches as they drift along above her. She watches them for long enough that when she looks down again, the ground itself seems to be moving. Her stomach lurches in response to the odd sensation.

"Don't look up," she says, closing her eyes. "Didn't he tell you not to look up?"

She pulls her cap lower over her forehead. The wig, in a shade of orange that had seemed far too lurid under the Institute's lighting, shifts and sends a wave of itchiness crawling across her scalp. Despite the cold, her head is uncomfortably warm, and the artificial hair clings to the damp skin on her forehead and back of her neck in a most uncomfortable way.

But she can hardly walk into the Marina with Kent's face and her hair, so she attempts to ignore the sensations and get on with her task. Studying the buildings and judging by the angle of the faint morning sun, she gathers her bearings. Left. She must go left. That way she will reach a railtrack, and then a road, and then she must turn left again, toward the Marina.

She reaches in her pocket, presses the little rubber ball into the palm of her hand. She is fine. Everything is fine. She will succeed. She must.

Hauling her rucksack onto her shoulder, she begins to walk.

  
Ayo's concerns about the development of the Marina and the challenges it would pose turn out to be largely unjustified. It's true that it is far larger than M2-79 had expected. While the two main buildings of the settlement remain largely untouched, a collection of lopsided shacks have begun to spread out onto and almost across the road, partly protected by sections of hastily-constructed defensive wall. Turrets whir away on makeshift platforms, with at least half a dozen of them pointing out into the road on which she walks.

With every step she reassures herself that they are of too antiquated a model to be able to identify her as a synth and attack of their own accord. Once she is close enough to be confident in that assumption, she is more concerned about the people. With every step toward and through the gate she expects to be stopped and questioned. She has her story; _I was run out of my home, I barely had time to collect anything. I just... I just need a place to stay for a little while._ But if it goes further than that, if they want to inspect her pack, the specially-modified laser pistol inside it would be harder to explain.

_What's this?_

_It's for protection._

_So why is it wrapped up and tucked into the bottom of your pack?_

In the end, nobody questions her approach. Nobody looks twice at her, in fact. Not the stall-holder listlessly pushing a cap from one side of her counter to the other. Not the man leaning back against one of the shops, smoking a cigarette, his expression made even more blank by the dark sunglasses over his eyes. Not even the grim-faced guard who walks right past her, slowly climbing up the steps to the guard post and staring blankly out into the wilderness.

M2-79 approaches the stall-holder, who doesn't look up until she's right in front of that counter.

"Can I get some water?" she asks.

The woman grunts and points up at the sign. _CAPS BEFORE SERVICE_.

"Okay," says M2-79. She reaches in her pack for the small stash of caps with which she had been entrusted. "How much?"

The stall-holder rolls her eyes. "Twenty. You just get beamed down to the planet or something? It's twenty everywhere."

M2-79 looks sharply at the woman. It's not impossible that the flash from her relay had been seen, but it seemed unlikely that she would not have been met by some resistance if it had. So she ignores the question, counts out the caps and takes the proffered can.

This place is far louder than the estate; a dull throbbing of some kind of machinery fills the air, and the buzz of indistinct chatter comes from all around. A brahmin tied up to a wooden post hammered into the ground snorts as it is loaded with boxes and bags by a vendor who alternately curses it out and cajoles it to stand still. And the smells, the _smells_. The air is thick with them, so many she can barely identify one before it's replaced by another.

As she stares around, slightly discomfited by so many competing sights and sounds, she realises that the cigarette-smoking man has moved away from his original position and is standing a couple of feet away from her.

"Hey," he says. "New here? Want a tour?"

"How much?" she asks.

He sputters around his cigarette, the right side of his mouth turned up into a half-smile. "Fresh from Diamond City, huh? I know they pretty much charge you for breathing there, but we're not like that. I mean... the smell of this place. It'd be criminal." He drops the cigarette on the ground, crushing it with his boot. "Besides, I'd feel bad. I'm only gonna point at a couple of things."

"Alright," she says. "Thank you."

"This is the market, as I'm sure you've guessed," he says, gesticulating around himself. He points at the building on the right, a tall warehouse with boarded panels over some of its broken windows. "That is the Palace of Purifiers, keep loose clothing away from any moving parts. In between and down on the dock there's our cafe, which is the finest al fresco dining experience you'll find in the Commonwealth. Get your reservation in early or you'll never get a table. And on the left there is the main office. You'll want to ask in there for a free berth. You can't just drop a bedroll down anywhere, you understand. You... do have a bedroll, right?"

The question seems a little sharper than the rest of his patter, and his gaze is trained on her in a way that makes her feel a little uncomfortable. It's unlikely that he can see her that clearly, what with the sunglasses, or that he knows Kent well enough to recognise any similarities. And as a surface-dweller, it was more likely that he was working out how easy she'd be to rob. Still. This was already more attention than she'd wanted to earn in the first few minutes in the settlement.

"Thanks," she says, quickly. "For your help. I... I should go."

"Yeah," he says. "Sure. See you around, maybe."

  
For a few dozen caps she secures a space in the main boathouse. It's loud with the purifiers right below her and the bedroll she obtains is barely thick enough to keep the chill from her bones. But she doesn't have to share the space, and through a broken window she can see the comings and goings of most of the settlement.

Including its founder's.

In the afternoon, as the light begins to fade, Kent comes to stand by a small campfire that has been set up beside the opposite building. She rolls her shoulders and seems to laugh, then reaches down and scratches behind the ears of a filthy cat winding itself around her ankles. She accepts a mug of something from the older woman tending the fire and stands with her for a while, listening more than talking, nodding and smiling as she does.

Then another figure joins Kent at the campfire. Tall, dark-haired, broader-bodied even than a courser. The Paladin, Danse. It has to be. He seems a little uncomfortable, his shoulders slightly rounded, his brow furrowed and dark. Kent offers him her mug; he refuses with a quick hand gesture. While the conversation continues, he rarely adds to it and when he does, it is with just a few words. All the while, he watches Kent intently, barely looking away from her even when she is not speaking.

After a little while, Kent touches him on the shoulder and smiles, a bright, beaming smile that seems to light up her entire face. Then, together, they move away from the campfire, toward and then past the building in which M2-79 now sits.

Once they are out of view, M2-79 leans back against the wall. Something strikes her as odd about the scene, but she can't quite identify what it is. It did not seem like the interactions Kent had described in her journal, the picture painted of a superior officer so stolid and set in his views that she had found it difficult to stand his company at first.

She closes her eyes and lets the roar of the machinery below drown out her thoughts. Speculation is worthless. She doesn't have time for it. She has a job to do.

Touching her fingertips to the little rubber ball in her pocket, she heads back down into the Marina.


	4. Chapter 4

_February 20, 2289_  
_Egret Tours Marina_

  
M2-79 sits on the mass of rocks that are piled up along the south edge of the settlement, overlooking the water. Above her, the long limbs of the brittle-leaved trees wave gently in the breeze, casting light shadows over her and the ground on which she sits. Over the last few days she has come to enjoy this spot. It is away from the bustle of the market, away from everyone in the settlement. Even the wild radstags avoid her, announcing their distaste with a dismissive snort before heavy hoofbeats signal their flight away over the grasslands.

It's not perfect; the sky is still there, stretching up into an infinity that she cannot and does not want to comprehend. But that slowly-moving canopy of branches is just enough to break it up and make her feel less exposed. It may be not a safe, solid ceiling and it's hardly like the thick layer of rock that lies between the Institute and the poisoned sky. Nonetheless, it is... beautiful, in a way.

A shout goes up from the market, drawing her attention down to earth once more. Another trader arrived, perhaps, with another batch of stinking vegetables or rusted metal scrap, perhaps a brahmin piled high with clothing torn from wrecked stores or the bodies of the poor bastards who died wearing them.

_Bastards,_ she thinks. _Poor bastards._ It strikes her that it may be the first time that a curse word has come so naturally to her. And when it does, it is in sympathy and not anger as she had always been told.

Odd.

Another shout goes up, and another. Then there's movement below, a young man darting out from his shack and toward the market. M2-79 leans forward, craning her neck to see between the Marina buildings. But she can see nothing from here. So she stands, dusts the dirt from her jeans and then from her hands, and slides down the slope toward the boardwalk. It shakes underneath her, responding both to her own footsteps and those of a pair of settlers who charge past. It's still hard for her to understand why they would care so much about protecting what broken and dirty possessions they own, but she has already seen enough arguments break out over such things to believe that they do.

Now a woman runs past, holding a cap pressed down over her thin gray hair.

"Mutants!" she shouts, spinning around and taking her next few steps sideways, the better to pass on her message. "If you've got a gun, get it. If you don't, get back to cover, NOW."

M2-79 does have a gun but it is not intended for this purpose. She recognizes the wisdom in the woman's words; she cannot afford to risk herself. Mutants are formidable enemies, and not to be underestimated. But regardless of the logic of the matter, she finds herself walking forward to the edge of the marketplace and peering around the nearest booth. A guard now attends to every watchpost, one still strapping extra pieces of armor over his legs. The machinegun turrets are not firing, but she hears distant gunfire that quickly becomes less distant, and an explosion that shakes the ground under her feet.

She takes another few steps forward in order to see more, but the settlement's gate has been drawn shut and the road is hidden from her view.

"What the hell are you doing?" hisses a voice.

She turns to find the source of it. The clothing vendor, sunglasses firmly on his face, is leaning out of the door of his booth.

"Get in here!" he says.

Before she can reply or move there's a crash and the gate explodes inwards, a horribly mutated dog-like _thing_ rolling in over the splintered wood, almost completely out of control. It twists to break its roll and struggles back to its feet, vicious claws scrabbling loudly on the concrete. The turrets spin around and start firing at it, into the settlement, almost directly at her. She freezes, unsure which direction to turn to run. A hand grabs her arm and drags her backwards; the clothing vendor. He pulls her over the doorstep and pushes her, stumbling, into the corner of the shop. He slams the door, slams the door and drags his table in front of it, caps scattering over and into the cracks between the floorboards, inaudible over the clattering of the turrets and ricocheting bullets.

Outside, the hound lets up a fearsome howl that echoes around the settlement and opens a pit of dread in M2-79's stomach. The escalating bursts of gunfire and shouting that follow it do little to reassure her.

_Foolish,_ she thinks. _Foolish. You can't take risks like that. You can't just walk out into the open just to see what's there._

The vendor comes to sit beside her, squatting down and resting his elbows on his knees. "Hey," he says. "It's okay. You're safe here. I've got your back."

  
When the all-clear is sounded, she helps the vendor pull back the table from the door. They step out into the open together. Other vendors are doing the same, walking out and around their booths, checking the damage that their meagre properties have sustained. The shacks seem to be fine but great holes have been punched in the defensive wall, flames licking over parts of it. But the settlement has survived. A cheer goes up, and then another, and the settlement is filled with a palpable sense of relief. M2-79 finds herself smiling, even. But then an odd silence descends over the crowd. She turns to see that Kent is being carried through the gate, her arm slung over the Paladin's shoulder. She hangs limply at his side, her feet barely making contact with the ground. Her face and the upper half of her jumpsuit are covered in blood, its green fabric black and glistening with it.

As the pair pass, the clothes merchant scratches the side of his forehead and looks away.

More people come out from hiding and trail behind them. Curious despite herself, again M2-79 finds herself trying to see something she should probably avoid. But she's in the crowd, now, and to leave would draw more attention than to stay.

The Paladin sits Kent down on one of the benches. He calls out for water and medical supplies then kneels beside her, holding her hand and anxiously looking up at her face. Blood pours from her nose, spattering on the concrete between her feet. She looks over toward him, her movements unsteady, as uncontrolled as if she were drunk.

"Danse," she says, thickly. "I hurt."

"I'm not surprised," he replies. "Put your head back."

"I'm okay," she says, before looking down at the pool of blood spreading on the concrete. "Oh wow. Maybe I'm not."

"Put your head back," he says, sharply. "Just do as you're told for once."

"Come on," she says, doing it but putting her head at a slight angle to keep looking at him. "Don't be like that."

"Like what?" he says. "You disobeyed a direct order. Why did you run out like that? I told you to stay behind me."

"I had to help them," she says. "They were out there on the road, I couldn't just..."

"I gave you an order," he snaps, then continues more softly. "Velia. You can't ignore my orders. No matter what we... what I... Damnit. You know how I feel about you. I can't lose you. Not now. Not while you're still under my command."

  
By the time night falls, the settlement's guards have already set about rebuilding sections of the wall that had been damaged in the attack. Some settlers are helping carry and hold steady great planks of wood and sheets of metal, while some dart around with their eyes on the ground, collecting spent shell-casings for whatever future use they might find for them. Some are out with pails of filthy water from the river, scrubbing away traces of blood and guts.

M2-79 watches from a corner. She won't approach or offer help in case anyone looks too closely at her face. Even standing here is dangerous. The high streetlamps shed as many dark shadows as they do pools of light but it would only take a single glance as she crossed from one to the other to reveal her identity. So she returns into the main part of the settlement, considering whether to retire to the solitude of her bedroll or to sit out on the rockface for a little while, to watch the stars until the cold becomes too bitter for her to stand.

Just then Kent emerges from behind the boathouse, crosses the open space between the buildings, and disappears into the main Marina building.

M2-79 waits. The Paladin is usually by her side or just behind, escorting her from one side of the settlement to the other. It's clear that he can't bear to let her out of his sight.

But this time he has.

M2-79 waits.

On the top of the building, in the repaired and extended upper floor, a light goes on.

M2-79 moves along the side of the boathouse, keeping to the shadows, and looks around the end of it. Yellow light spills out of the armory door, glittering on the surface of the water. Within the shed, framed by its doorway, M2-79 can clearly make out the shape of the Paladin. He's on his knees in front of a set of power armor. He reaches down, picks up something from the floor beside him, and leans in toward the suit. He is completely absorbed in his activity.

_Now. Go now._

On the first floor of the Marina building, the settlers pay her no attention, all too engrossed in their own conversation or thoughts to even look up. On the second, two settlers lie sprawled and snoring under brightly-coloured blankets, one of them with a half-empty bottle of whisky by their head.

On the third floor Kent stands behind a desk that has been set in the middle of the room, in front of a pair of large bookshelves. She's writing in a book that lies open on the desk, glancing from time to time at the green screen of her Pip-Boy. A bare, flickering lightbulb hangs above her; her hair gleams golden and bright in its glow. Another lamp on the desk itself throws a softer light over the rest of her, its much-spliced cable winding through piles of papers and books on the floor to a mass of plugs taped to each other and into a power socket low on the wall.

Luckily the Pip-Boy is in her hand and not on her wrist. While the pistol at M2-79's side has been modified such that only organic material should undergo total disintegration, the technician who had handed it to her had urged her to be no less careful with her aim. The Pip-Boy was far too important to her mission to risk its malfunction or destruction. So, M2-79 waits. And only when Kent puts down the device altogether does M2-79 step forward and clear her throat.

"I'm... really busy right now," says Kent, her voice stuffy and nasal from the injury she had sustained. "If it's any problem with the settlement, please talk to Phyllis. She should be downstairs, if you're..."

"It's not about the settlement," says M2-79.

"Alright," says Kent. "Well, if you have concerns about the presence of the Brotherhood of Steel, I can only direct you to their liaison officer at the Castle. I can give you..."

"It's not about the Brotherhood of Steel," says M2-79.

Kent presses her hands on the surface of her desk, a clear but subtle gesture of impatience, then looks up. "What is it, then?"

M2-79 raises the pistol. She levels it at Kent, wordlessly.

Kent's eyes open wide, or as wide as they can given the swelling over her upper nose. Her mouth falls open. She stares for a long moment, her blue eyes barely moving from M2-79's own. She stutters, briefly, then shakes her head. "You're... What? What is this?"

Slowly, deliberately, M2-79 removes one hand from the pistol. She pulls the hated orange wig from her head and casts it to the floor. Under it, now revealed, her hair is pinned close to her scalp and disgustingly full of sweat and grease. She doubts that Kent can see the full extent of the likeness between them, but what she can see appears to be enough.

"Oh my God," says Kent, her voice little louder than a breath. "You're a synth. You're a synth version of _me_."

M2-79 nods.

"He's sent you to replace me," says Kent. "Hasn't he?"

M2-79 nods.

Kent lowers her head, stares down at the papers scattered over her desk. "My own son."

"Yes," says M2-79. "And my Father."

Kent doesn't look up, doesn't move at all. When she speaks again her voice is low, hoarse, devoid of strength or hope.

"I can and will defend myself," she says.

M2-79 clicks the safety. "Don't bother."


	5. Chapter 5

_March 4, 2289_  
_The Prydwen_

 

> _It hurt more than I thought it would. Though I'd been through basic combat training and experienced any number of testing procedures over the previous months, when they said that nothing really prepares you for the first time you break part of your own body? They were right._
> 
> _It didn't work the first time. Or the second. And I started to do something else that was new to me. I cried. These huge, hacking sobs tore their way out of me, like they were trying to tear me apart from the inside. I was losing control, I was almost out of my mind. It felt like my grip on sanity was shaking loose with each blow that landed._
> 
> _But I had to match it. I had no choice. And soon, the tears that streamed down my face were joined by blood from my nose, and when I found a scrap of broken mirror I confirmed that it looked about right. I had a deep red gash right across the bridge of my nose, and a rapidly-swelling bruise that I was sure concealed a break._
> 
> _Just like hers._
> 
> _I held my hand under my nose and watched it. My blood. My actual blood, leaving my body. I'm not sure now if it was the shock from the pain or the environment in which I'd been raised but I couldn't stop watching it. In that moment, it was fascinating. My own blood collecting in my palm, bright and red. I remember noticing that it was thinner than I expected. I watched it for what felt like hours; I told myself to stop many times but I couldn't. I was holding my life in my hands and everything around me was so... superficial in comparison._
> 
> _He came to check on her then, the Paladin. On me. His eyes were full of fear, fear and pain as though he felt my injury himself. I told him that I'd knocked it, that I'd just been trying to wash my face and it had started bleeding again. He helped me to a chair, brought me water, mopped up the blood from my face. Then he leaned his forehead against the side of mine and told me he loved me._
> 
> _That was it. It was done._
> 
> _I was her. I was **her**._

  
Arthur drops the Pip-Boy on the table in front of him and leans back in his chair. A wave of revulsion washes over him as he reflects on the words he has just read. Danse, a machine himself, expressing a sentiment such as love for one who would turn out to be another of his kind. How ironic, and how pitiful at the same time.

Nevertheless, it explained how the man - the synth - had so easily been taken in by the deception. He had been blinded by sentiment, his judgment lapsing in the face of an unsanctioned attachment, so blinded by the woman he thought he loved that he failed even to notice that she had been replaced.

A voice inside his head speaks up, quiet but insistent.

_What was your excuse, Arthur?_

He reaches out for the Pip-Boy again to move on to the next entry but his thoughts soon drift away from the serried ranks of green letters, to the place where it happened. Egret Tours.

He has not seen the location for himself but Brotherhood vertibirds had frequently flown over it en route to targets in the dangerous territories that lay beyond, those irreparably poisoned lands occupied by feral ghouls, mutants and vicious deathclaw. They reported back on the place first as a point of interest, somewhere to search for supplies or raw materials and then as a growing settlement, a place deemed safe enough for residents of the Commonwealth to lay their heads. It had grown quickly, unusually so for a place so far to the south, so close to those dangers.

Perhaps there was more to it. Perhaps there was nothing to it. It was hardly as if the other locations touched by Kent had not grown in similar fashions; their base, the Castle, with its patchwork of rebuilt concrete walls and scattered shacks leaned up against it. The old drive-in to the north, its perfectly flat ground now covered with dozens of market stalls and the homes of the traders who run them. The scattered citizens of the Commonwealth had emerged from the wilderness and congregated on the Minutemen's beacons like moths drawn to a flame.

To her.

She was indeed to thank for that. The woman, not the synth impostor. She had pulled together the fractured remains of the Minutemen and turned them into an army. She had acted as military commander and figurehead for an entire region.

He knows what it is like to live under those pressures. To see eyes on you that expect you to lead them, to provide for them, to know exactly what to do in every situation. To know that there are eyes on you that are waiting for you to fail. He felt the weight and weariness of that every day and he had seen it in her, though he had been too blind to see it as anything but weakness. She had almost broken before him, tears in her eyes as she reported back on her infiltration of the Institute. She mentioned it, even, in one of her own journal entries.

_I told him I'm not going back into the Institute. I can't. But he just looked at me. One thing you can say about Maxson is that he's not a liar. If he can't say the truth he won't say anything at all. So he's going to send me back in. I know it. But I can't. I won't. I'd rather die._

  
He finds himself touched by regret, a sudden sadness and grief for her loss. How must it have felt to realize her idle assertion was about to come true? To see her own face looking back at her, to understand the full implications of that moment?

He rubs his hand over his mouth, the back of his index finger brushing lightly along his lip. He smooths down his beard, an unconscious gesture that brings some measure of comfort. And he thinks of her, of the Minutemen, of his own actions. Perhaps returning the synth's body in such an unceremonious fashion had not been the best route. But in his anger, with fresh bullet-wounds biting at the flesh of his leg, with the stench of blood and spent fusion cells in the air, it was the decision he made.

He has no time for regret. That is not permitted to him. Though he can mourn the loss of the woman, what's done is done. He must move on.

-

The floor shifts beneath him as the ship moves under the force of strong winds battering it from without. Arthur adjusts his footing, awakening the dull ache in his lower leg, and sending a sharp stabbing pain up into his thigh. He grits his teeth against it; he would have to speak to Cade again but later. Not now.

Ordinarily he'd have ordered this briefing to take place in his own quarters, the better to ensure absolute confidentiality. But that had had little effect, not if one were to look at the events of recent weeks. And at least the observation deck has windows, filthy as they are, that afford a glimpse out on the Commonwealth and the sea that borders it. The Prydwen's shadow falls on the water below, barely visible through the grime. He imagines it skimming over the waves after the fashion of the sea-going ship after which it is named.

Hubris, perhaps. Plain arrogance, even. Perhaps this whole mission had been so.

Scuffling footsteps move across metal plating behind him, light and fast. He turns. A squire with an armful of folders is standing in front of the low bench at the side of the room, glancing uncertainly between it and the table next to it. The table is strewn with glasses and bottles, remnants of the long and painful debriefing of the night before.

Proctor Quinlan clears his throat. "On the bench, Squire. Anywhere there's room."

The child starts nervously, but places down the folders. She steps back, her movements stilted but glancing up at Arthur with bright, apprehensive eyes.

"Thank you, Squire," says Quinlan, impatiently. "That will be all."

A salute quickly raised, an _Ad Victoriam_ quietly whispered, and she is gone before Arthur can react.

He looks to the Proctor. "What do you have for me."

Instead of the usual quick smile and brief summary of what he intends to cover, Quinlan removes his spectacles. He angles them in the light and scratches at a speck on one of the lenses. He speaks without looking back up.

"The body has been delivered. There was... a minor altercation."

Arthur remains still. "Go on."

"The team chose not to negotiate the delivery in advance. They took her... its body to the very gates of the Castle. Naturally those within the Castle assumed the worst. Weapons were raised but none fired, thankfully."

Involuntarily, Arthur's teeth clench.

"And there were witnesses. From within the lower ranks of the Minutemen, and the general populace."

The urge to shout, to curse, to howl out his rage is almost unbearable. To kick that table with a heavy boot, to send the bottles and glasses on it flying. To pick them up and smash them into glittering shards against the wall, to slam his knuckles into it again and again until they bleed. Then to watch as the acrid alcohols that had been within them merge and mingle with his own blood on the rust-coated floor.

_This is your fault. You did this. Your thoughtless decision has brought the anger of the Commonwealth down on you. On all of you._

Instead, he remains still but for his hand, which he lifts and passes over his mouth.

What's done is done.

"We should prepare a statement," he says. "A recording, for their radio. I will read it."

"I have already taken the liberty of preparing something," says Quinlan. "It is in the top folder. But I shall leave it to you to make adjustments as you see fit."

Arthur nods.

"Furthermore there's no news of the escaped Railroad agents. We have checked the locations of all known safe houses but they are deserted, if not themselves overrun by Institute synths. They appear to have gone to ground."

"Very well," he says. "Keep looking. If that's all, you're dismissed."

He turns away, swallowing down the bile that rises into the back of his throat. His anger is so strong and so keen to erupt that it fights back against his control, manifests in physical symptoms. Once Quinlan has gone he can relax a little, allow his face at least to reflect the fury he feels within. But there is no sound of movement behind him, no quiet footsteps to indicate the man's departure.

Quinlan clears his throat again. "Perhaps Kent's Pip-Boy might reveal..."

"No," he interrupts.

"I merely..."

"No. I'll read it myself, and then you can have it."

"Sir," he says. "With all due respect my scribes can have it processed in a fraction of the time."

Arthur turns, angrily taking a step toward him. "Quinlan," he says, his hand raising to point at the Proctor before he can stop it. "I've made my decision."

Quinlan does not move a muscle in the face of this, but his voice is raised when he replies. "I have every faith in your abilities, Elder, but ten scribes can process the data far faster and more efficiently than you."

"And that's ten people who get to see the information before I do. Who can do whatever they like with it before they inform me. _If_ they see fit to do so."

Quinlan's face remains impassive, but a flush of red is making its way up his neck and into his cheeks. "Sir," he says, his voice sharp and unusually discourteous. "Are you implying that you don't trust my staff?"

Arthur doesn't speak. He can't bring himself to.

_If he can't say the truth, he won't say anything at all._

"Haylen is suspended from duty," says Quinlan, his tone more measured but still clearly furious. "She won't be touching sensitive data again for a long time. _Any_ data. I can assure you that those on the team have no connection to Kent or any interest in this matter beyond the successful completion of our mission here."

There is logic in his words. Quinlan's trust had been breached as much as his own. He could not let the actions of one solitary scribe with an inappropriate emotional attachment to her squad leader erode his trust in the entire operation.

But this... this is too much. Whatever the device contains, he has to know first. He _has_  to.

"I will read it myself," he repeats. "And then you can have it."

Quinlan takes a slow and measured breath, not for one second breaking eye contact. "I understand your decision, sir. But I strongly disagree with it."

"Your candor is appreciated," replies Arthur, no less pointedly. "Dismissed."


	6. Chapter 6

_February 22, 2289_  
_Egret Tours Marina_

Rain hammers down on the Commonwealth, gray, cold, and miserable. M2-79 watches as it slops down the sides of the Marina buildings, thick rivulets that twist and ripple over brickwork and wooden panels. It pools on the broken concrete below, collecting in dips and cracks before flowing into the river or back toward the road. As much as it can be called that, at the moment. Thick, reddish-brown mud has almost completely engulfed it, and is starting to intrude under the gates and into the open space that lies between the market stalls.

A movement in it catches her attention. The gates are swung open by a guard swathed in waterproofs. Through them comes a trader, braving the elements, oddly early. They half-walk, half-wade out of the mud, leading a heavily-laden brahmin behind them. A miserable existence, for sure. M2-79 can't imagine what might keep a person going through such hardships. As she watches the pair the brahmin shakes one of its heads, pulls on its halter with the other, and relieves itself into the mud.

With a shudder, she refastens the plastic sheeting across the window, and returns her attention to her work. Kent's Pip-Boy. It's been barely a couple of weeks since Kent's last trip into the Institute, and the last time they were able to duplicate its contents. So M2-79 has spent the last couple of nights catching up on the entries added since then, and as much of the days as she's been able to take away from her new duties. Patching leaks. Supervising repairs. And just... talking to people. That's her least favorite part.

She stares at the device. The letters dance around the screen for a moment before resolving into neat lines of text once more. The lettering is much smaller than on the terminals she was directed to use in the Institute. The poor lighting - one bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, and a dim desk lamp that hums and dims whenever another light or appliance is switched on elsewhere in the building - has left her eyes feeling strained. Still. She's making progress.

_Or you will be,_ she thinks, _if you actually start reading today._

As she begins to read, the wind gusts strongly again, forcing the corner of the window-sheeting free and sending a light spray of rain onto Kent's desk.

Her desk.

She reaches over, fixes it back down, and continues to read. The intervening period had been somewhat eventful for Kent. The Brotherhood had ordered her to work with the Institute. Maxson himself had sent her back in; she had been reluctant but felt she could not object too strongly for fear of further destabilizing the fragile alliance between them and the Minutemen.

When she had finally agreed and returned to the Institute, Father had ordered her to retrieve a set of escaped synths being sheltered by the Railroad in Bunker Hill. A test, of sorts. A test of loyalty, to the Institute and to her own flesh and blood.

She failed.

By the time Kent had relayed in with X4-18, the Brotherhood were already in position. Every wave of Gen-2s was taken out almost as soon as they materialized, along with several of the Coursers sent to accompany them. Eventually, from within the Institute, Ayo had called off the operation, withdrawn the surviving units, and written off their fallen brethren as a loss.

M2-79 already knows this. Everyone in the Institute knows this. It's spoken of in hushed tones, by voices quick to silence when others pass. But nobody knew what had happened to the escaped synths, or the Railroad agents they had been certain were responsible for the breakout.

She continues to scroll through the entries for that day. Kent's narrative is confusing, disjointed, uncharacteristically so. She describes X4-18 falling to a bullet from a gun she never heard fired. Walking through the battle ignored by both sides, as if she were in a dream. Her footsteps unheard amidst the cacophony of laser fire, the clatter of armor and robotic bodywork falling to the ground, the dying gasps of humans and synths alike.

She made her way into a basement, deep under the monument itself. There she came face to face with the Railroad, for the first time since they'd helped her find her way into the Institute. And the four synths, sheltering from the storm outside.

She betrayed them, too. She invited the Brotherhood in. Handed them the synths.

_Do what you think is best._

Of course, they executed them.

M2-79 has to read the passage several times to be certain of what she has read. But there it is, in green and black.

> I made a mistake. I know that now. I thought they'd show some amount of mercy. I thought they'd look into the synths' eyes, as I had, and reconsider their stance. But they didn't. They didn't think about it for a moment.
> 
> It's my fault. I'm responsible. I let them die.

M2-79 rises, dropping the Pip-Boy on the desk. It lands on one of its corners with a loud crack and rolls away, settling face-down on the damp metal surface.

_You did not just let them die,_ she thinks. _You_ killed _them_.

She paces the room, back and forth, back and forth. _You killed them,_ she thinks, again, only with difficulty shaking the repetitive words from her mind. _You gave them to the Brotherhood. What did you think they would do? Invite them in? Give them shelter as they did you? Have you not paid attention to anything they've done while you've been with them?_

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. Pulling the little rubber ball from her pocket, she squeezes it in her hand.

"It's alright", she says, quietly. "It's alright. It's going to be alright."

Gradually, her breathing slows and her heartbeat sounds less loudly in her ears. She closes her eyes and listens to the wind, to the rustling of the trees, to the faint sound of the river below. Then, over it, she begins to hear the thud of feet on wooden steps, getting closer, then a firm series of raps on the door.

"What is it?" she says. She tries to sound relaxed, normal, but her throat feels taut and the words emerge more high-pitched and abrupt than she intended.

The door swings open. Water spatters onto the floor, shaken loose from the lopsided doorframe, and a large figure is revealed silhouetted against a brightening sky.

"Good morning," says Danse. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

M2-79 issues a vague greeting and turns away from him, returning to the desk to lift and buckle the Pip-Boy back onto her wrist. When she turns back, his brow is lowered into an expression of concern, or confusion. Either way he doesn't speak of it. Instead, he nods at her. "The storm appears to be abating," he says.

She looks over his shoulder, up to the sky. The clouds are heavy, still, and low enough she could almost reach out and up to touch them. And the wind still has a bitter edge to it, swooping into the room to cut right through the fabric of her clothes and dig into her skin like icy scalpels. But the rain has lessened to a gentle drizzle, and it certainly seems calmer out there.

She nods. "You're right. Do you think we can set out today?"

His eyebrows rise. "Yes, but... I know you didn't want to leave until you were sure the defences were sound. If you'd like to perform an inspection before we make the decision..."

Silently, she curses herself. They'd talked about it only the day before. "Alright," she says. "Shall we go do that now?"

He pauses. "Well," he replies, slowly. "As we discussed, it is a Minutemen issue. I understand if you'd prefer to do it alone."

She takes a breath, glancing down at her wrist and adjusting the Pip-Boy's strap while she gathers her thoughts. _Too fast,_ she thinks. _Too keen to go. Slow down. Be patient._

"I know," she says. "And I know it's not strictly any of your concern. But I - and the Minutemen - would value your input, if you'd be willing to give it."

 

As they walk down and out to begin the patrol she finds herself once again falling behind him, as if she were walking with Ayo or one of the Coursers. Head low, careful not to look around too much, careful not to answer back at all. But he's not Ayo. Nor is he a Courser. So when she falls back too far, he stops and looks back with a questioning look in his eyes.

She forces herself to lengthen her strides, to stay ahead of him a little. Together they make their way around the settlement, stopping at each guardpost to ensure that all the damage has been repaired. She tries not to defer to him too much; she takes the lead in any conversations, drawing exchanges to a swift close. She notes a turret not moving through its full tracking curve; that gains her an approving nod.

In return, she smiles pleasantly. Nods agreeably. Makes light, confident conversation. But all the while a sourness festers inside. _You'd kill me sooner than look at me,_ she thinks, _if you knew. Just like the synths at Bunker Hill. You'd be horrified to know that a synth was walking at your side. You all would._

But she can't afford to show it. So she redoubles her focus on the task.

 

Out by the road, some of the merchants are starting to go back about their business. One lays out some scrap boards in the mud in front of their shop. One tries to sweep the water from the concrete in front of it, a never-ending task. The clothing shop in which she'd sheltered during the mutant attack is closed and dark. The door is shut tight, and there's not even a 'back soon!' message on the chalkboard by the door.

"Something wrong?" says Danse.

"No," replies M2-79, dragging her eyes away.

At the gate, they're met by the guard captain, his uniform spattered in mud and stained with grease, his stubble dark and flecked with white. After barely a terse nod at Danse, he tips his hat to M2-79 and addresses her directly. "General."

"Captain," she says. "Status?"

He nods. "Good. One of the fastest recoveries I've seen. We're still down a couple turrets, but I've upped the frequency of patrols and we've got some backup and a mechanic coming down from Sunshine today or tomorrow."

"Great," she says. "Glad to hear it."

"You heading out today?"

"That's the plan," she replies.

Beside her, Danse shifts, but doesn't speak.

The guard glances at him before continuing. "Well," he says. "I'm glad we had you when we did. If it hadn't been for you, this could have been much worse."

She smiles. "Anyone would have done the same."

He regards her earnestly. "Would they?"

M2-79 pauses, unsure how to respond to the comment. Her smile soon begins to feel awkward, artificial, so she's grateful when Danse clears his throat and finally speaks.

"These defences will suffice for the short-term, but you should consider further reinforcing them. If it would help, I could arrange for a Brotherhood team to come out here. They can advise and assist..."

"Yeah like I said, we got people coming," says the guard captain, before Danse has finished speaking. "We can handle this ourselves."

Silence falls. The captain appears calm but his eyes are hard, and his jaw held tight.

Kent would say something. She would say something gentle and calming. The oppressive atmosphere would lift and one or both would laugh. Then they'd all go about their way, no harm done.

She is Kent.

But she doesn't speak.

The guard once again waits for Danse to begin before he speaks, interrupting a terse 'understood' with a half-hearted 'thanks for the offer, pal'.

Danse nods his reply, his expression blank. He turns to M2-79. "If that's all here, we should finalize our own arrangements."

Wordlessly, she nods back, and follows him toward the armory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiiiii
> 
> since the last time I updated this fic I've had a couple of mental health episodes, some extremely hairy moments in my professional life, and my 10 year relationship ended somewhat abruptly. I've dug myself out of the mental and professional holes (for the moment at least), the split was amicable enough, and I am now living alone in a tiny flat with a lovely sea view which is all I really wanted when we moved down here tbh.
> 
> in the course of the move I lost the most up-to-date outline for this fic (it was on a whiteboard I didn't think to claim) and naturally in the passage of time the story has changed and evolved. I think it was in an early enough stage that there shouldn't be too much inconsistency in style or plot but apologies if there is, and please do let me know if it's really jarring.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this and if you stick with it, prepare to have your dreams s h a t t e r e d. :)


	7. Chapter 7

_February 22, 2289_  
_Egret Tours Marina_

Before she enters the armory she takes a moment to lean on the doorframe and knock the mud off her boots. The floor of the shed is already coated in a thin, greasy layer of filth, scattered with oil-soaked mats and sodden offcuts of carpet but there's no reason to make it worse.

Danse just strides on in. He heads straight over to the equipment locker and starts pulling out weapons cases and ammo bags, stacking them on a nearby workbench. He works silently for a moment or two, then his shoulders rise and fall and he turns to face M2-79. His jaw is held tight and his eyes don't meet hers for more than a brief moment; but he does speak.

"I took the liberty of servicing your armor," he says, "while you were... recuperating. It's not in the best condition but in the absence of Proctor Ingram and a better set of tools, it will have to do. Get in and tell me how she feels."

A little surprised by his brusqueness, she can only nod. But it seems to be enough of a response for him, as he turns away and returns to his task. She steps behind the armor, reaches up high to turn the release handle. Then she leans back as the split halves of its back yawn open like the jaws of a great beast, ready to devour her alive.

That's how Kent would put it, anyhow. M2-79 has no such frame of reference. To her, it just looks like all the schematics and grainy photographs have led her to expect. A piece of primitive military equipment, a relic of the past, soaked in contaminants and full of rust. Her eyes pick out each dent and scratch on the inner edges of the suit, and a series of dark patches on the interior that might indicate an ingress of water or an egress of a prior occupant's bodily fluids.

She hesitates there for long enough that Danse notices.

"You... do remember how to use it, yes?"

"Sure I do," she says, with a weak laugh. "Just like riding a bicycle."

It's not a lie. She's never even seen a bicycle, let alone tried to ride one, and the Institute had never managed to bring a full set of power armor underground. To begin with there had been no need; a Courser was more than enough to handle anything the Commonwealth had to offer, at least until the Brotherhood had arrived. Fears of contaminants being brought in and uncertainties about how an aged, half-spent fusion core might react to being transmitted via the relay meant the suggestion was always put aside, despite Ayo's recommendations to the contrary.

By the time the executive team had realised Kent was reasonably proficient in its use, and thus that M2-79 should be made the same, it was too late. The energy situation in the Institute had become too critical to squander it on transporting such a weighty piece of equipment.

But the schematics were clear, so despite her reservations about the cleanliness of the machine, M2-79 is not deterred. She pulls herself up and into the suit, ducking her head under the back of the helmet and sliding her arms into its like she's putting her hands into an oversized pair of gloves. For a moment she feels exposed and unbalanced, having to press herself forward into the suit to keep her balance while her back remains unsupported and uncovered. But she soon finds the closure switch and flips it.

The suit hisses and closes behind her. A small flickering symbol in the corner of the suit's heads-up display flickers on, faint and golden. A string of text rushes up and past her view too fast for her to read. Then a gentle whirring begins to sound through the suit. A breath of air touches her face, full of dust and strong-smelling grease. She coughs, brings her hand to her mouth, succeeding only in crashing the metal glove into the thick glass front of the helmet.

"Steady," says Danse's voice, right by her ear.

She tries to turn her head toward him but is prevented from doing so by the thick padding inside the helmet. He steps into view and holds up his hands.

"Remember," he says, his voice still oddly close thanks to the suit's audio. "Keep your actions slow and steady. Like this."

  
Once he's guided her through some basic movements, he rubs his hand over the back of his neck and tells her to get out of the suit. As she steps down from it he moves closer, steadies her descent with a hand under her elbow.

"You seem very... unpractised," he says. "How long is it since you've taken her out?"

The warmth of his fingers seeps through the rough material of her shirt. While she was no stranger to physical touch from the staff in the Institute, it had always been rough, sterile, unfeeling. Though it's just a simple gesture, this seems different to her. Kinder.

She looks up, and gives him a crooked smile. "You wouldn't like it if I told you."

"No," he says. "I'm sure I wouldn't."

Suddenly it's too much; the touch, his height and physicality, and the stench of armor grease that lingers around her as if infused into her clothes, her skin. She pulls her arm away, barely resisting the temptation to rub it with her hand to erase the lingering sensation of his hand almost on her skin.

"You know why I don't use the suit," she says, too sharply. "It slows me down."

He regards her for a moment, his expression neutral, his deep brown eyes inscrutable. "That does have its advantages."

Her bruised and broken nose seems to throb under his gaze, and a heat rises in her cheeks that she can't quite understand. Confused, she looks away, her mind racing. "Now who's slowing us down," she says, trying for humor but sensing that she's missed her mark once more. "Didn't you want to leave by noon? I'd better go fetch my things."

Before she's taken barely a few steps toward the door, he speaks again.

"Knight," he says, quietly.

She's tempted to keep going, to walk out into the Marina pretending she hasn't heard.

Then he calls her by her name.

_Velia._

She stops and looks back. He's standing in front of the now-quiet suit, which dwarfs him and blocks the light from the window so she can barely make out his expression until he steps forward. His brow is lowered, still, more so than before. He's clearly troubled and composing himself for a difficult conversation.

"This is an important mission," he says. "We can't afford to be at odds with one another."

She tenses. _You've been too hard on him,_ she thinks. _He's noticing._ Kent would not snap at him about power armor, although she never conceals her dislike of it. And she would not have let him squirm under the incivility of the guard.

That must be it.

"Danse," she says, "if it's about what happened at the gate, I'm sorry. I should have said something."

But he frowns. "What? No, I... no, that's not it."

"Oh," she says.

He rubs the back of his neck again, lets out a frustrated sigh. "I want to apologise for my actions on the night before last."

Her mind races. That evening had been spent with him helping her clean up fresh blood, bringing her water, checking for renewed signs of Kent's concussion. Nothing that he could need to apologise for.

"Go on," she says, eventually.

"I should not have said what I did. About my feelings for you."

"Oh," she replies.

"You were hurt. I was concerned. I allowed my feelings to get the better of me. It wasn't the right time to unburden myself on you, to speak of such things. I realise that now and I'm sorry."

She lets out a shallow breath. "It's alright."

"No it's not," he counters. "It was selfish of me. And it was inappropriate. Not just because of my position as your superior officer, I know we spoke about that before. But because of yours. What happened at the gate..."

"So it is about that," she says, lightly.

He sighs, glances away. "Please. This is difficult enough as it is."

M2-79 closes her mouth tight.

"What happened at the gate," he continues, "it... put our situation into perspective. A different perspective, that is. I understand that you have a prior commitment to the Minutemen. I've tried to be respectful of that. But I'm not blind to the difficult situation between our organisations, and in the Commonwealth as a whole."

M2-79 is not surprised. It would take a lot to be blind to that. Kent had spoken extensively of the problems in her diaries; of her difficulties in persuading the Minutemen to trust the Brotherhood, her belief that they were Commonwealth's best chance of defeating the Institute, and controlling some of the other threats within the region. She stopped short of calling them saviors but it had all seemed a little... excessive to M2-79, even before she set foot above surface.

Now, to see one of their finest stood before her, his shoulders sloped, struggling to find the words to express himself, it seems even further from the truth.

_You're not so grand after all,_ she thinks. _You're just a man._

But then she thinks: He _is_ just a man. And as he continues to speak she realises just how much of what he's saying could well apply to himself. You're constrained by duty, he says, as a man constrained by duty. You must focus on your mission above all else, he says, as a man distracted from his by a woman.

Perhaps he even has something in common with her. Not Kent, _her_. Every day, waking up and putting on a veneer of confidence, an act to hide this vulnerability. Is that so different from pretending to be someone she's not? And he has little more choice in the matter than she does. She doesn't know the punishment for failing the Brotherhood, but she can't imagine it would be any more merciful than a sentence laid down by the Institute.

M2-79 steps a little closer to him. "Danse," she says. "I'm an adult. I can make my own decisions. So can you."

He looks at her with an expression that seems anguished, but his voice remains calm as he persists in his denial. "You can't be expected to spend your time apologising for the perceived flaws of the Brotherhood, inaccurate as they may be. And on a personal level, I don't want you to feel like you have to fight my battles for me."

"It's not a battle," she says. "We can work through all this together."

He shakes his head. "Anything more than a professional relationship between us would split your loyalties. That could be catastrophic. Not just for you, or us, but the Commonwealth. It's better for us to keep a distance until such a time as the Brotherhood have earned the Commonwealth's trust."

She catches his gaze, and holds it a moment. "And what if they don't?"

He leans back a little, his brow lowering. " _We_  will."

Too late, M2-79 realises her error.

His jaw hardens once more, and he draws himself up a little more upright. "Thank you for hearing me out," he says, stiffly. "I know it's... a difficult conversation to have. But it's for the best."

Throat dry, she can only nod a reply.

He frowns and glances up at the window. "It should only take us a couple of hours to reach Waypoint Echo. We'll recon with the rest of the squad there and get further instructions. Go get your things. We'll leave as soon as you're ready."

Then he turns away, and heads back into the shadow of the suit.


	8. Chapter 8

_February 22, 2289_  
_en route to Waypoint Echo_

As two metal giants they lumber through the barren countryside, their passage undisturbed by attackers or the environment. While they walk, the sky continues to brighten, though the winter sun is too weak to break through the clouds completely. And as they travel further south, the light from above begins to be outshone by the sickly green glow of the Sea itself.

Perhaps that's just her imagination, her fear of the contaminated zone putting notions in her mind. Or an illusion created by staring at the map on the suit's internal display for too long, the golden shapes and lettering lending the real world a different hue.

A gust of wind shakes loose the last drips of rain from the dead branches and leaves overhanging the road, spattering it over M2-79's visor. The suit's geiger counter clicks a few times as if in disgust; but she doesn't even wince. It can't reach her in the suit. Nothing can.

She closes the map. Danse knows where they're going, after all. He walks slightly ahead of her now, laser rifle held ready in those huge metal hands. He doesn't talk. The few words he does exchange with her consist of brief warnings; of potholes in the road, and a blind corner at which they should be wary of a potential attack. None comes.

M2-79 is grateful for the quiet. It gives her more time to think about what she needs to do. She knows she upset him with the slip of her tongue in the armory. She needs to keep her focus; his words were far more true than he could ever know. Her task now, having... dealt with Kent, is to gather information, and that won't be possible if she pushes away her main advocate within the Brotherhood.

So; she walks close beside him, follows his every instruction, and resolves to be the best Brotherhood Knight she can possibly be.

  
Given their fast pace it only takes ninety minutes or so to reach the waypoint. Danse points it out as soon as it comes into view from the road. It's just a couple of rough tents pitched up in the shadow of a broken stretch of elevated highway, guarded by two vigilant Brotherhood soldiers in plain fatigues. While they're initially alert, they relax and salute as Danse calls out to them, and as the pair pass into the camp itself.

"Over here," says Danse, heading toward the shadow of the highway. He exits his suit and helps her out of hers again but this time the assistance is more perfunctory. A brief touch to her elbow to control her descent, then as soon as she's on the ground he's let go and is moving away.

She pauses by the suits. Further under the highway, well-sheltered from the elements, is another silent set of power armor. This one is also marked with the insignia of a Knight. Beyond that, two more Brotherhood soldiers stand, one leaning against a concrete pillar, the other standing free, rolling his shoulders. Their voices echo out, amplified but distorted by the odd space. It takes a moment for the words to settle down into recognisable sentences.

"Have you seen it?" asks one.

"What?" asks the other.

"Prime."

"No, I've not been back to the airport for weeks." A pause, and a groan. "Man, I miss a proper bed."

"Don't we all. Looks good though."

"What?"

"Prime. Are you even listening to me?"

There's a scuffle, a good-natured laugh. M2-79 loses the thread of what they're saying but Prime must mean Liberty Prime, and that is a project Ayo has impressed on her as vital to learn more about. She suppresses her breath, just slightly, and focuses hard on their conversation.

"... yeah, Ingram's strutting around like a proud mama. Baby's first steps are gonna be a real event."

"Thought they couldn't power it up. Eggheads worked something out?"

"Nah," comes the reply, then in a more conspiratorial tone: "Well. I was talking to... you know who. She said she heard they'd found something. Some power source or other. Big enough to power a city."

M2-79 remains frozen to the spot, willing him to continue. But before he does, she hears her name being called from within the camp. She tears her attention away, closes up the suit and goes in search of the Paladin.

  
The camp is strewn with equipment cases, some open, some shut, a few piled up in the center and topped with a rough piece of plywood as a makeshift table. Inside one tent M2-79 can just make out a set of radio equipment, hissing gently and emitting the occasional distorted voice message. Nobody seems to be paying it any attention.

Danse frowns at her.

"Sorry," she says, stopping beside him. "I had something in my shoe."

He looks as if he might be about to speak, but before he can the flap on the other tent lifts and a bulky man with dark close-cropped hair and eyebrows almost as thick as Danse's emerges. Rhys.

"Oh," he says, his voice low and gruff. "You decided to show up too, huh?"

She smiles politely, well aware of the Knight's previous run-ins with Kent. "Can't get rid of me that easily."

He lets out a snort that might be amusement or derision, she can't tell which. Then he hands a buff-colored folder to Danse, though his eyes linger on her face for longer than feels comfortable. "Here it is. One mission briefing. I've gone through it already but you should read it for yourself. Couple details about the target you might be interested in."

Danse takes it with a nod. He hesitates with it in hand, looking around the camp. "Where's Haylen?"

"Back at the airport," replies Rhys. "Scribes are all hands on deck with whatever it was she brought back from the Institute."

At the she, he nods toward M2-79.

"Oh," says Danse. "I see."

"She couldn't come with us anyway," replies Rhys. "Not enough Rad-X in the world to survive in there without a suit."

Danse carries the folder over to the table. He opens it up and flips through its pages, talking with Rhys. M2-79 tries to listen to what they're saying but the rounded backs of the two men act as a wall; she's not really needed. Her mind drifts onto the information she's just learned. The data Kent had stolen was in the hands of the Brotherhood; Ayo's worst case scenario. Far better was the rumored power source, if it were true. What is the Institute but a city, and one desperately in need of power?

"Alright," says Danse, closing the folder with a snap. "I'll radio in and let them know we're ready to commence the mission." With that, he heads into the radio tent, ducking his head to fit under the low awning.

Rhys turns and with barely a glance he walks straight past M2-79, so close that she can't help flinching away. He sits on one a couple of small foldout chairs around what might have been a cooking fire a few hours ago. He snaps open a can of water, pulls out a battered pack of some snack item or other.

"What?" he says. "You want one or something?"

She shakes her head. "No."

He shrugs back and puts one of the snacks into his mouth, washing it down with a swig of water.

"Suit yourself," he says, mouth still full. "Sit down. You're making me nervous."

She does so, clasping her hands on her lap, rubbing them together to put some warmth back in them.

FInishing his snack, Rhys wipes his fingers on his pants, then narrows his eyes at her. He gestures at her with a jut of his chin. "So what happened to your face?"

She lifts her hand to her nose, just pulling it back in time before she touches the still-bruised skin. "Supermutant didn't like the look of it," she says, lowering her hand again. "Decided to rearrange it for me."

He lets out another of those snorts, and start at her with a hard expression. "You let one get that close?"

M2-79 returns a cool glance. "You could say the same for him. And I'm the one that came out of it alive."

This time, his reaction is undeniably a laugh, but he's quick to compose himself. "Fair," he says, gruffly. "But you'd better be sharper than that when we're in the Sea."

"I will," she says.

"Closest medic is a vertibird ride away," he continues. "And we don't get those until we reach the payload."

"I'm sure we'll be fine," she replies. "We all know enough first aid to get us through."

"Sure," he says, abruptly. "But if you think I'm getting out of my suit to put a plaster on your finger in _there_ you've got another think coming."

As he speaks he nods over her shoulder, toward the south and the poisoned expanses of the Glowing Sea. As he does, the faint sound of an electrical discharge rumbles up and over the camp, punctuating his speech.

"We need to get to the target in one piece," he says. "No exceptions, no excuses."

She tries to remain calm under the force of his stare. "I've been in there before. I know what to expect. You can trust me."

He glares at her. "Can I?"

A long moment passes. Her heart beats faster, and her fingers twitch against each other. "Yes," she replies, firmly. "I'm a Knight, just like you."

He looks around for a moment, then leans in closer. "You're nothing like me. You ran a couple of missions with your hand being held by Top. Brought back some trash from the Institute. Doesn't mean you're one of us."

"Your superiors don't seem to think it's trash," she retorts.

"Let's see what they find in it first. Could all be a way of weakening us. Wasting our time."

M2-79 rolls her eyes in a way she knows will infuriate him. "I had no idea you were so paranoid," she replies. "I have no reason to deceive you, why would I?"

He glares at her. "You tell me."

"Come on," she says. "Give me a break. If I didn't want to be here I wouldn't be."

"It's not your choice to make," he snaps. "You're here because you have orders." 

Her heart leaps, but he continues on.

"It's not because you _want_ to be here. That's not how the Brotherhood of Steel works. And if you still don't understand that, I don't know why you're here at all."

Relieved, she gives him a gentle smile. "I'm here because I believe in what the Brotherhood is trying to achieve."

He laughs mirthlessly, and looks up at the sky for a moment. "I know your game. I can see right through you. You're here because we've got the big guns. Your Minutemen have sat back and taken everything the Commonwealth has to throw at them. Hiding away in shitty little settlements that fall down at the first sign of an attack. Walking around with hand-cranked weapons, where did you even _find_ those?"

"We make do," she says. "No, we don't have the Brotherhood's resources. We don't have the training. But we're still here. And don't forget the Minutemen saved your asses. We could have left you stranded at the station."

"We'd have gotten along just fine without you. Trust me on that."

"It didn't look that way when we showed up," she says, sharply. "In fact I seem to remember you were flat on your back."

He leans forward again. "If you think we couldn't have survived without your untrained, provincial..."

"What's going on?" says Danse.

Rhys jerks upright, still glowering at her.

"I asked a question," says Danse. "Would one of you care to answer me?"

Rhys rises to his feet, brushing crumbs from his lap with stiff, sharp movements. "Nothing," he says.

Danse turns to M2-79. "Is that so?"

She nods. "Yes. We were just... talking."

"Good," says Danse. "Go get in your suits. It's time to go."


End file.
